


remains

by blue_scribbles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dissociation, Faked Suicide, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Watson-centric, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 09:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17578634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_scribbles/pseuds/blue_scribbles
Summary: Sherlock falls from the rooftop and John falls apart. Is it possible to cope with what he witnessed? Is it possible to heal yet again?





	remains

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost this story includes a major trigger, so if suicide is a sensitive topic for you, I'd suggest to skip this fic, because I really tried to go in depth about the thoughts and feelings of someone who experienced the suicide of a loved one. Secondly please pardon my english, I'm not a native speaker and well aware that I'm still far from perfect, still I'll be thankful for anyone who can correct some major errors ^^"

Remains

 

“Sherlock, Sherlock...“

 

“I'm a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please.“

 

“No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please“

 

“P _lease._ Let me just...“

 

“Jesus, no.“

 

“Oh God, no.“

 

John's legs went limp under his body weight, if the civilians didn't have held him up, he would've certainly toppled on the asphalt below, people pushed between him and Sherlock, blocking his fixed stare at the blood spattered cement. Under his fingertips John could still feel the ghost of Sherlocks tender skin, pale under his skilled grasp and without a hint of a pulse. At this thought John sqeezed his eyes shut.

 

“God, no.“

 

He murmured the two words under his breath, like a mantra. What happened around him, seemed to be far away, not worth recognizing, while he hoped for it to just be a nasty dream, a cruel magic trick.

 

The question if John could've stopped all this, was gnawing at his insides. But he did everything Sherlock asked for, didn't he? He tarried at the other side of the road waiting patiently for Sherlock to end his life. He had been paralysed at the scene in front of him, Sherlock's dark form against the grey sky, the distinctive black shoes firmly set on the fair walls of St. Barts, he had been way to close to the edge for his liking, he had been way to close to death. But John had been too late to save Sherlock, to keep him from jumping. listless he aknowledged Sherlock stretching out his arms, lost without any way to communicate with him. As if in slow motion he observed how Sherlock's body shifted his angle, slowly tilting forward, further and further, ten degrees, twenty, fortyfive, soon, soon he has to start flying, just another moment and Sherlock would reveal enormous black wings. He would become a giant, gleaming raven at the clouded sky.

 

John send a hurried prayer, so that God may gift him wings:

 

“God, no.“

 

But God did not answer and John found his own voice again.

 

“SHERLOCK!“

 

John could not take a hold of what was happening. He could not believe he had been too late to save his life. Why should John not be able to preserve Sherlock against his own destruction, when he already killed for him and would have died for this unique man? The Situation engraved itself painfully deep in his memory:

Sherlock falling, like a rock, a gleaming opal, hurling with increasing velocity towards the ground and his inescapable death. To see the normally acting superior detective stumbling in the force of gravity, was a shock that made John doubt Sherlock was still living at all, his arms were uselessly swinging in the air, the Belstaff flapping in the sharp wind like a plumage, it made him rather look like a treasure than a human being, a precious part of John himself gradually nearing it's destruction. John's manic thoughts made him believe Sherlock would shatter into twinkling black shards, when reaching the ground. But instead of the clatter of glass he was expecting, John could only hear a muffled thud, like the beating of a heart. His own heartbeat roaring in his eardrums, John was suddenly running, while his body was still numb with shock. John felt like wading on the sea's ground, the silence was crushing him, seperating him further from the surface. Every move he made was weightless, his feet losing traction on the loose sand. He was losing his hold over his traumas with Sherlock now lying dead cold to his feet, pushing him too over the edge into the unknown.

 

Between the shadows of the passerbys, a reflection of unspeakable horror was unfolding, for John it was a nightmarish image, bearing something poetic- like black ravens- but if John would ever try to put even one rhyme about it together, he knew, Sherlock's rotting flesh would crawl it's way up his throat and spill all over. There's nothing beautiful about Suicide, there's no euphemism that would make up for the trauma shredding John's psyche. It was inherently ugly, John knew far too well. Now he saw it even clearer with Sherlock sprawled out in front of him like roadkill, just the hollow corpse of a bird in which's empty chest maggots were wrenching. Feasting on remnanst of what could've been.

The scarlet blood looked misplaced as it stood out against the black, white and grey everything seemed to be drenched in. It was hideously poking out beneath the bundle of ink-black curls and heavy fabric, as it soiled Sherlock's delicate features and vandalised the curb with a dark red puddle, it seemed to be everywhere, as if you could not get too close without being blemished with glowing red guilt too. John was afraid it already bit through his toecap. His stomach turned painfully.

 

What happened next was in a haze, just a haunting feeling of Sherlock's chilly wrist on his fingertips was left, the rest was soaking with darkness. John had closed his eyes, static whirring was filling his head, letting him guess about where he was: car engines, the buzz of voices, London. He found himself cowering on the curb near the pool of blood, his hands covered his face and his lips only knew two words.

 

“God, no.“

 

A tingle slowly spread over his hands, which told him he was hyperventilating, but John just coudn't stop it. He coudn't stop anything. His body had went numb again, forcing him to only register the chaos that were his thoughts. He felt impotent in the face of reality, like way back in Afghanistan, a bullet enebbed in his shoulder and no means to do anything about it. He was helpless, while stuff simply happened _to_ him, he _was_ saved, or _was_ killed, any control over his own life was politely denied. But right now, John would've happily preferred a piece of lead in his body over living without Sherlock. Because after all he's been through nothing had been worse than the loneliness he'd faced. He had been so alone. All the time, so incredibly alone, it had nearly killed him. However give him only one day with Sherlock and John had desperately clung to his new-found will to live. 

 

“Sentiment is a chemical defect, found in the losing side.“

 

is what Sherlock might have said now, but Sherlock wasn't saying anything anymore, not feeling anything either. And with every second that ticked by John wished more and more to be in his place, because everything was better than to feel right now. Sherlock was gone and had taken John with him. Without him his life was empty again, negligible. What relevance could it still bear without anyone knowing if he was even there, if he lived or died? Everything rose and fell with Sherlock. But now, they hit rock bottom and John could sense the thoughts from before creeping up again, like poison, irreversibly manifesting in his head.

 

_I'm better off dead._

 

John knew what thinking this meant, that it would only be rational to make an appointment with his therapist, but he couldn't find it in himself to actually do it. It felt awfully right to just surrender to his trauma. He deserved to be in this place anyway, with Mycroft explicitly asking him to look out for Sherlock. And now he had failed him horrendously too. John will never be able to forgive himself. 

 

If he had only been a little bit more observant;

If he had only noticed the signs;

If he had only been a little bit faster;

If he had only joined him on the rooftop;

If he had only found the right words to say;

Sherlock would be alive right now.

If he had only

if he had

if he

if...

 

“God, no.“

 

John could make out a blanket that was draped over his shoulders, the gentle weight eased his dissociative condition gradually and John came back to himself, shivering he tucked the blanket more firmly around himself, digging his stiff fingers in the rough cloth. Ungainly searching for consolation, John began rocking back an forth, all the while taking deep shuddering breaths. His head began to clear, making him realize with impending horror where he was, he suddenly could see the people around him. Photofits of extras who gaped and whispered, while police and ambulance just did their job,- empty puppets- came to his mind, blind marionettes following a script from a dreadful play. How could nobody see the wreckage? Did nobody else hear the guns fire in the air? Did nobody feel the burning heat? John's world had collapsed and every breath he took, while Sherlock had sighed out his soul, was like gulping down brine, he wanted to vomit and drink more at the same time. 

 

It took him some more minutes before John could speak again and explain to the paramedics that he was better now. If John tried to fool them, or himself, he couldn't really distinguish. Nonetheless he felt a little bit more in control, even though Sherlock had took it from him in such an atrocious manner. Now he could get up again and lie and function. In all his brokeness he left the battlefield once again, if he had been a hostage or a soldier, he didn't want to know. One way or a another, he will leave like a veteran, limping. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
